


Ways to Measure a Year

by SleepyTea



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: F/M, Hanschen has freckles and is emotionally stunted, Helchior, M/M, Multi, Rilow siblings, Thea is a Rilow sorry I don't make the rules, Thea is super dead I'm sorry, also Ilse and Hanschen bonding, because I'm garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyTea/pseuds/SleepyTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He jerked suddenly under Ilse touch, a quick, messy movement while his lips elicited a feeble, keening sound. He let his mouth hang open then, breathing in sharp like he was trying not to whine. Reality finally hit him, and there. There. Suddenly, it was autumn. Suddenly, she was gone, and Hanschen for the first time in his life, crumbled- thick, salty tears pooling out from his eyes like the ocean itself was bleeding salt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ways to Measure a Year

Hanschen Rilow didn't cry. Never in his life had he ever cried- not when he slipped and scraped his knees when he was five, not when Bobby Maler broke his nose in the seventh grade- never. But standing on the rippling edge of the river that had swallowed-- _no_. He couldn't bare the weight of her name on his conscious. The muddy water was beginning seeping into his knees socks and certainly, his uniform would be ruined now, as he hadn't changed clothes since the incident. He was sure he reeked- tired eyes blurred and hair askew but no- _no_ he wouldn't cry.

The creek pooled over the cobblestoned surface, appearing docile and harmless- how he'd always known it to be- or at least thought it to be. Sleeplessness was proving to deceive him, and if he looked too quickly he could see her silt soaked ribbon still clinging to a loose branch- could hear the echo of his scream hoarse voice shouting her name while he pawed through the flash flood waves, choking up water.

It was pointless- everything he'd ever done was pointless. But he wouldn't cry. It wouldn't do any good. She'd soon become yet another thing he was so used to having around, he’d simply forgotten to appreciate.

The plan that everyone seemed to agree upon thus far was to leave Hanschen alone. It wasn’t as if no one had thought to say anything, as the idea had certainly come up, but a lack of words hung hollow in the lunchroom- in the courtyard- in any space that Hanschen occupied, the air fell dead. The consensus boiled down to the reality that no one had anything to say that could help anyway. Hanschen Rilow didn’t grieve, and so any comfort must have fallen on deaf ears. 

The wind billowed on a turn of it’s heels before changing course, and the crisp leaves parted in a moment of exposure to reveal the wide orbs of Ilse eyes, concealed behind verdure. It was far from the first time she’d found herself toying around the riverbank, questioning their decision between the parting limbs of branches, but it was the first time she’d really caught a clear glimpse of the desolation that mapped his countenance- the warm slosh of what had once been the ocean in his eyes, frozen over into oblivion. 

Ilse wasn’t the epitome of healthy relationships, and yet she was sure as his friend, they’d owed him more then the distance they’d articulated between them. The guilt weighed heavier than the hesitation and determined to fix their error, she toed her way out from behind the trees, looking entirely and utterly like she belonged their. Hair that she had once tamed into soft waves held in tight curls around her shoulders, wide doe eyes precise and cautious. She had truly become a figment of nature, and when Hanschen finally raised his head he couldn’t feign his surprise at seeing her there, and yet his features remained a blank slate, following the anatomy of the bubbling water with his gaze.  

Hanschen once found sanctuary in this place. He'd spent too many forgotten class periods lazily basking in the pools of sunlight, his socks discarded to dip his soles into the brook. It was all very different now, and the soft, melancholy coo of the sparrows in the foliage was enough to prove that. He was as soothed as he was unsettled by the way the river continue to idly flow, as if nothing had gone amiss. A few flower beds had been uprooted near the shore, but aside from that there was no trace that anything had in fact happened. Only now, there was Ilse wading quietly through the water, with her delicate fingertips weaved through her skirt in an attempt to keep dry.

Hanschen tried not too focus too hard on Ilse shaped, pale ankles- tried instead to focus on how she moved with an almost angel like grace through the water, standing in contrast to the way Thea always plunged recklessly over the rocks. He swallowed once, flickering his gaze to drink over her before setting his distant eyes back on his decimated socks. Hanschen didn't like to admit he needed people, and in most situations he'd shoo off anyone who even tried, and yet Ilse presence has suddenly reminded him with a start that not a single person had come to visit him. Sure, he would have scowled and shut the door in their face, and they most likely knew that but maybe it’d have made a difference if they'd tried. It'd have been a comfort in a sense- he was used to be swarmed with unwanted company and with _her_ gone well, the silence became nearly unbearable.

"She was a brat. I don't... I don't want her to be angelized just because she's... because she.." Eventually his voice sliced through the white noise, squishing his sock clad toes in the mud, just to trail off again. Perhaps, he'd said it because he knew he was just the same. He was downright awful and bitter and if he'd died in her place, not a single person would have missed him. The thought was as shattering as her absence was, but he knew it held some truth. Even as the words left his mouth, his lips twisted in agony, trying his very hardest to keep his features from crumbling beneath him.

 Ilse was scared to touch him, as she was in the presence of nearly any man, and yet this time it was entirely different. Thea’s death had of course shaken the entire town. She was loud and harsh at times, and yet she held a certain promise of elegance that even Hanschen couldn’t quite master. The difference however, was that the children huddled in half-hearted attempts at comfort, and the adults pursed their lips over their porcelain cups and muttered about how it was, ‘a shame.’ Ilse wondered if that was all they saw her as- a waste of potential. She could tell by the way Hanschen was carefully trying to coax his lips into a controlled line that he was thinking the same, and so a hesitant hand reached out to grip his shoulder and give a bout of comfort in the form of her fingers pressing into his arm.

 “Of course she was a brat. She was your sister after all,” Ilse replied, surprisingly even herself with the flutter of a laugh that managed to bubble up past her lips. All Hanschen could think as she continued was, _is_ my sister- _is_ my sister. Yet, his inner monologue went unbeknownst, and Ilse soft, pink lips continued to reach for words. 

“You’re allowed to miss her, Hanschen.” she permitted, and for a breath of a moment the winds changed pace again. Hanschen could see her now- see the way the forest played tricks on his eyes, and in the distance Thea treaded the longer way over the bridge, keen on following Melchior to his afternoon studies, before inevitably being shooed away with a charming smile and of course, because it was Melchior, mild irritation for the interruption. She’d protest loudly before stalking back over to the shore, busying herself with Ernst and Wendla uprooting flowers for impromptu bouquets. Silence followed the memory, and the deception disappeared from his gaze. 

 “So quiet…” he mumbled, his brow creasing under the weight of his countenance. He slipped his muted eyes to trace over Ilse hand, her grip a surprise of grounding on his shoulder. Somewhere amongst the static he picked up on her offer of- ‘ _if you need anything…’_ and nodded once, despite the fact that he knew he most likely wouldn’t say a word to hint at his own defeat, even if he did truly need her. His tangle of hair pulled side to side in the wind, and for a flicker of a moment, he almost felt enough like himself to feel half embarrassed for his appearance.

 “I know… I know you all think that I don’t have a soul- that I’m something short of damned, but I did love her… _I loved her,_ Even if I never said it.” the admittance felt thick and sour on his tongue- suddenly cold clad in nothing apart from his ratty t-shirt and the shorts from his uniform. The birds stopped their chirping and nature seemed to fall silent at his depreciation uttered aloud. 

 Ilse's mouth went dry for a moment. There was nothing right to say- no redemption for the years Hanschen was excluded from playing pirates, or the way their laughter fell silent when he situated himself at their lunch table. She tried to reason that they were kids, and that they couldn’t have possibly known better, and yet the guilt turned like a nasty secret in her gut she’d been salvaging into an excuse.

 Ilse wanted to ask if he really was convinced they thought so lowly of him, but hadn't it become evident? Maybe he’d never been the favorite boy in town- he was a bit cold, a bit distant, she could admit that- but she wouldn't go so far as to say he was without a soul. But Ilse hadn’t been to church since she was twelve and in pig tails, and so it hardly seemed like she had a right to question anyones holiness, and so she settled. 

”I know you did... She knew you did." Her grip on his shoulder tightened slightly, trying to warm him through the small connection. 

 Hanschen rubbed furiously at his face, sniffing once with a feeble excuse for a shrug. He pressed his fingers against his skull, as if the action itself could cease the numbness in his head and make him feel something-anything but a buzzing in the pit of his stomach like a thick, humid summer’s day. It reminded him of the cicadas that used to shed their skin on tree bark- lit up by the lazy circling of lightning bugs in the air. Thea would always wave them in his face, and he’d always stick his tongue out as if her presence itself disgusted him. The fingers of his free hand caught on the rosary beads in his pocket- Thea’s rosary beads. He didn’t know if there was much of anything left to pray for- if God was merely frowning upon him, or if he’d forgotten him entirely. 

He jerked suddenly under Ilse touch, a quick, messy movement while his lips elicited a feeble, keening sound. He let his mouth hang open then, breathing in sharp like he was trying not to whine. Reality finally hit him, and there. _There_. Suddenly, it was autumn. Suddenly, she was gone, and Hanschen for the first time in his life, crumbled- thick, salty tears pooling out from his eyes like the ocean itself was bleeding salt.

 The riverbank was an island, and everyone was on the other side. Amidst it all, Thea breathed as the snapping, sarcastic blooms of sea between them, and Hanschen couldn’t bring himself to cross that threshold and leave her behind, and so he himself had been left there- high and dry. 

 

\- - - - - - - - - 

 It had been five months since Thea’s death and for the first two Hanschen hadn't so much as unlocked his bedroom door. Of course, he was eventually forced to return to school under the scrutinizing gaze of his father, but even then, he only went to escape the long, threatening corridors of what once must have been a safe haven. He couldn’t stand it there- couldn’t deal with the way the air conditioner billowed harshly through the foyer and how slowly but surely, every trace that his sister had existed in the first place slowly faded from his home- only it wasn’t much of a home anymore.

  Nothing had been for a long time.

 But eventually, summer's seed and buzzing fireflies had dissipated into the soft crunch of wet leaves and the year carried on. The days grew shorter, and eventually his friends, although he'd been reluctant to ever refer to anyone as such, slowly returned- kicking through the courtyard, passing notes in class, and all around avoiding the fact that Hanschen had hardly spoken a word in half of a year, and even when he did his voice was soft and passive.

 He was by all accounts, different than he’d been before the incident. He was still far from approachable, and his dialogue was still clipped and hostile whenever he was in a mood, but he wasn’t the disconnected sharp existence he once occupied. His hair had grown out an inch or so, standing wild and unruly in soft waves around his frame, and his eyes were dazed and dreary. Had he not had such a harsh reputation, he might have nearly resembled Moritz, gliding through life in a blind oblivion. He hadn’t even protested when Martha, and awkward first year, had accompanied Ernst in tucking wild flowers into his knee socks.

 In fact, he’d taken to letting the two do so every morning before class, if for no other reason than to study their features as they laughed quietly and talked amongst themselves as if he wasn’t in fact the subject of their focus. Thea had been close to them- looking down at their grinning mouths he couldn’t imagine why. His sister had always been sharp and sour, and he couldn’t imagine her enjoying the company of well- somebody nice. But then again, here he was- and he’d been the one to seek out their presence. Perhaps, he’d never really known her at all.

The thought was enough to send his heart into a frenzy and he jolted slightly to shake the notion. If the two noticed, they said nothing, continuing about their work. When the lunch bell finally rang through the corridors, Hanschen found himself in a daze, scuffing his shoes against the linoleum floor with little care for his surroundings. The hour passed with relative normality, life slowly peaking back into the group in the form of soft laughter and the trading of pudding packs. Even Ilse had wormed her way into the school more often to sit amongst them, and Hanschen was grateful for her presence, even if most of her attention was directed at Wendla weaving flower crowns in her lap. 

Really, the only person who hadn’t returned to their lunchroom sanctuary of sorts was Melchior, who as a matter of fact, was talking rather loudly about the benefits of genetically modified fruit with a disinterested lunch lady, sloshing pasta onto a tray. In the months that Hanschen had taken to return to reality, Melchior had slowly separated himself from the group. Hanschen didn’t doubt that he still coaxed Moritz to the safety of his home after school nearly everyday, and hell, even Anna could be spotted beside him amidst the chaos between classes. Frankly, Hanschen seemed to be the only person Melchior wasn't associating with.

 Hanschen didn’t mind- _really_ he didn’t. Melchior was obnoxious, loud, and fought ‘the oppressive, capitalistic nature of society,’ via hunger strikes when his mother didn’t let him stay out past ten o’clock. Melchior Gabor was the kind of kid Hanschen wanted to knock in the teeth, and yet in his absence, he’d taken to studying the very way he moved- catching glimpses of his unruly curls in the hall or the way his lips parted in soft laughter that gained a hearty momentum whilst he smiled- warm eyes dancing behind his lashes. It wasn’t that he wanted to see these things, and had he had the choice, he would have wiped Melchior’s ridiculous face from his memory. But Thea, had always been talking about him in a way that feigned any care for the subject, but Hanschen knew that she was dead-set in love with him. 

Hanschen might have expected such from Wendla- maybe even Martha had she not been pining after Moritz, but he’d truly thought Thea would have seen past the facade. Melchior Gabor had never deserved his sister’s love, and while he wielded his anger through the power of a plastic spork in his pudding, he decided that he’d tell him just that.

 

——————-

The opportunity came sooner than he’d expected in the form of Melchior Gabor sloshing knee deep in the river. Hanschen had walked this path since birth. He knew the way the roots upturned in the soil, cooing for him to wander off the trail into the forest- knew the way snowfall nearly streaked it into desolation. He knew the way Melchior _did not_ belong there. Of course, after Thea’s death he’d ventured further and further along the outskirts of the path. She hadn’t quite treaded here- hadn't uprooted flowers and hung her laughter through the branch and Hanschen found it a little easier to breathe in the new territory. Still, even from this distance, he could decipher Melchior in all of his audacity peaking through the vines- his long fingers combing plots through the water.  

By the time Hanschen finally made it to the shore he was dusty and enraged, and even his best efforts couldn’t settle the trembling in his palms. First— hellfire crashed over him in a thick heat, and then waves, and once again Hanschen was coughing up the ocean in his lungs. Only this time, Melchior Gabor was pinned beneath his thighs like a prey he’d caught off guard, and then undoubtfully, knocked into the water. His knuckles were white, cheeks flushed and _god damn it,_ his fingers couldn’t find register around Melchior’s throat- who was currently kicking out his legs in a desperate attempt to dismount the erratic boy, vivid lips parting above the brine to suck in oxygen.

 Hanschen was panting and red in the face when Melchior finally knocked him off and into the mud, his sharp visage contorted into something akin to an agony struck rage. His vision was blurry, and despite it all, he could still see Melchior, now standing above him with a pinched brow, throwing his hands up in exasperation. 

 “What the actual _fuck,_ Hanschen!”

 Hanschen propped himself up onto his elbows, the lapel of his jacket now torn by Melchior’s hands amidst the turmoil to expose his prominent collarbone. Had Melchior not been so angry, he might have had half a mind to compare the freckles dusting his chest to a constellation. Had H _anschen_ been less angry, he might have had the decency to be embarrassed. 

 “You shouldn’t be here,” he prompted instead, his voice scrutinizing and low, and Melchior was about ready to thrash his skull against the foreshore. As if _Hanschen Rilow_ had any right to tell him where he could and could not be— as if he had any right to speak to him at all, let alone near drown him! 

 Only Hanschen kept speaking, and Melchior’s countenance fell- feeling gutted like a fish with his usually pristine curls sopping and dripping a steady rain onto his broad shoulders, stricken with the brief utterance of-

  **This was _her_ place. **

 Melchior was grounded in that moment, his eyes darting between where he’d hung his blazer and socks on a nearby branch for later recovery- shoes tucked with care on a dry protrusion of land- he could make a run for it. He’d done track in the seventh grade, and Hanschen, albeit as fit as they come, had far shorter legs than he did. 

 Only he didn’t. Four times in his life, Melchior Gabor had run from Hanschen Rilow, and this time, he stayed- sinking down beside the muddied boy with his pale toes peaking playfully into the water. His expression remained steadfast- grim and exact as he watched the trees billow before them. 

 It had been Thea’s place. Even Melchior remembered that. There were the solid memories of Thea bombarding him with her company and admiration throughout sophomore year, and the brisk winter evenings where she and Wendla turned their bigs eyes behind their bangs and the glow of a campfire to stifle their keen giggles. There were also the foggy memories- the last day of summer their junior year at this very riverbank. Thea had found him wading in the water, and when she’d finally coaxed him to the shore, her expression was soft- careful like she finally knew all attempts for his love must have been futile. The sight- the memory, was enough to break his heart all over again. 

 He couldn’t help loving Wendla, and somewhere inside her she must have known that all along. Melchior had twisted a wildflower- an indian paintbrush to be exact, between his thumb and forefinger before carefully tucking it against her palm with a promise in the form of a kiss against her cheek. It wasn’t enough. Even he’d known that- but it’d been something.

 He didn’t love her, not in that time, but maybe he could have. Maybe he would have. 

 She was a messy, wild girl, adorned with expectations and heartbreak in the form of a sarcastic smile. She was fairly respectable, and surely would have been an acceptable choice in the eyes of his father. But, he’d chosen Wendla and now Thea was just a distant memory of a life he’d never taken the time to lead- a life that Hanschen would have no doubt been a part of. Perhaps, that was why he’d avoided him so readily. 

 Then there was Hanschen, with the ocean itself held at-bay in his eyes and Melchior could see Thea’s wildflowers blooming inside of him, watered by the overflow of brine pooling along Hanschen’s lashes. Melchior had never seen Hanschen cry before, and frankly, he was at a loss of what to do. When Wendla cried, he fastened his strong arms around her waist and held her until the pain subsided, and when Moritz cried, he offered him a hand- something the boy wouldn’t feel as defeated accepting, and just squeezed and squeezed until he could manage a smile again.

 But, Hanschen was something entirely wild, and Melchior knew that the only way to rid the boy of his sorrow was to force it out of him. Melchior was frightened, grief stricken, sopping wet, and kissing the tears from Hanschen Rilow’s freckle dusted cheeks. The later made a noise that was nearly inhuman, and yet, Melchior pressed on, mouthing and tracing the edge of his tongue of Hanschen’s tear stained cheeks. 

 Hanschen wanted to punch him- wanted to knock the light off of Melchior’s stupid face, because he was _grieving,_ and he shouldn’t need this-couldn’t possibly want this. But, it was only a breath or so longer of feeling Melchior’s warm breath on his jaw before he was turning his head to catch his long fingers around his throat. Hanschen squeezed once, and although Melchior’s lips instinctively parted to drag in a breath, he didn’t look frightened and Hanschen suddenly found himself entranced with the later’s fluttering lashes. His hand relaxed from his throat, although he didn't remove it, moving on instinct now to drag Melchior into a kiss that consisted of too much teeth, was entirely true dry, and somehow exactly what he needed. 

 Melchior tasted like apricots- like summer buzzing in the back of his skull and Hanschen was desperate to pull any last memories from his lips. Melchior preened with subtle noise at each contact of their wet lips, heart-set to mold himself against the boy who held the hand that wasn’t around his throat, tight in his hair. He was as bossy as ever, and yet Hanschen couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

 February was defrosting the branches, his eyes, the cavern of his chest, and Melchior rolled his weight on top of him- kissing him in a silent plea to memory that _summer would come again._

Hanschen let his torso sink into the soil, no longer concerned on fighting for dominance while he tipped his head back, feeling Melchior moving along his frame- twisting their fingers together in the mud. Hanschen’s toes were still partially submerged in the wake of the river that seemed to flow a little more idly now, and the sun danced it’s way through the trees- reflecting off the last melting caps of pristine snow. 

 Hanschen was nearly blinded by the sunlight, and when Melchior pressed a warm kiss to the niche of his collarbone, a spot that had always been ticklish, he couldn’t help the soft snort that escape his lips. It was the first pleased sound he’d made in nearly a year, and in that moment he let his heavy eyelids sink shut, the heat of the sun still playing over them and he swore he could hear Thea’s overjoyed laughter bouncing over the brook and ringing through the trees like a litany. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a mess, and I'm not sure who's POV it's from but thank you for reading it nonetheless. 
> 
> Twitter: @GetlowRilow
> 
> I've suddenly realized all the typos in this? I'll fix that ASAP.


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